


Obscene Dreams in Rusty Beds

by sunken_standard



Series: Obscene Dreams in Rusty Beds [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, F/M, Masturbation, Objectification, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 11:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simply because he chooses not to fuck doesn't mean he isn't a sexual being; Sherlock fantasizes.  Set sometime after ASiB.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obscene Dreams in Rusty Beds

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://www.listal.com/viewimage/2896171) picture. Title is from the Tubeway Army song [Every Day I Die](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vQeswklQu-Q) No beta or britpick (it's insecurity, not arrogance, really), feel free to point out mistakes.

Simply because he chooses not to fuck doesn't mean he isn't a sexual being; his body has needs and it's wholly satisfying to fully indulge them on occasion. A thick cut of rare red meat, lounging in bed while the sun streams through the blinds, a glass of scotch to make him warm and loose-limbed; all those things are completely acceptable once in a great while, as is a good, drawn-out wank. 

He waits until he's alone in the flat and will be for some time, then strips to his skin and slides between the cool, crisp sheets, under the heavy weight of his duvet. They'll end up on the floor before he's finished. 

He closes his eyes and retreats into his mind, letting his hands drift over himself where they will.

He's in the empty wardrobe in one of the guest rooms, the place he used to hide when he was nine and had first discovered the things his body could feel. He was always tall and gangly, and he'd had to scrunch himself up in the bottom, using his fingernail to catch a flaw in the grain of the wood on the underside of the door to pull it closed. He'd known what he was doing was filthy, nice little boys didn't touch themselves there.

He doesn't remember the things he'd fantasized about then, or if he had at all; it doesn't matter. He's already decided on whom he'd like to think about now. He could have her, outside the confines of his brain, and he's toyed with the idea once or twice before, but he respects her enough to never act on the impulse. He'd only end up hurting her again and again; the thought is counterproductive to his objective so he pushes it away.

He's in the wardrobe, which smells faintly of dust and old wood and camphor; the door is cracked open just enough for him to see out. He's made a little nest with a blanket because the bottom of the wardrobe is hard under his bony arse (crude language is for lesser minds, but this is base and crude, so acceptable). He slides a hand along his thigh, feeling the texture of the thin cotton pyjama bottoms under his fingers. His belly is tight with anticipation, she'll be back soon (from a party? something, doesn't matter).

He hears voices in the corridor and then the rasp of the key in the lock; his breath hitches. He's quiet as he slowly slides his hand into his lap to cup himself through his pyjamas, his cock twitching to life under the snug fabric of his pants.

Her high heels click across the floor; she strides into his field of view and stops. He can't see all of her at once, only parts of her outlined by the crack in the door. Her hair is shorter (he'd seen a picture on her desk from when she was younger, though conversely, it had made her look older, more mature; it suited her), shoulder length and slightly mussed. 

She slides out of her shoes (shiny black leather pumps, not stilettos) and sighs. She turns to face the bed as she toes them out of the way; one of the seams in her black silk stockings is crooked. 

He holds his breath and tries to keep still, even though his hips want to push up into his hand. She turns back so he can see her in profile. He watches her hike up her dress (knee length, seashell pink raw silk under sheer black lace, straight and square to compliment her boyish figure; there'd been a dress like that hanging in another wardrobe in the attic, moth-eaten and owned by some great-aunt in the 20's, he remembers the contrasts in texture under his small fingers, but he's getting sidetracked), then bend to roll one lace-topped stocking down over her thigh and calf. She balances with a hand on the upholstered footboard to slide the stocking off, then does the same to the other leg.

He's hard now, tracing the outline of his cock with his fingertips while biting his lip. Her legs are thin and pale and they look so smooth; he wants to run his hands over them. He makes a tiny sound, high in the back of his throat, then freezes. She looks at the wardrobe, startled.

He's been caught.

She considers for a moment, then lowers herself to rest in front of the headboard, her knees drawn demurely to the side. One hand rests behind her, the other on the top of one slender, bare foot. Her nails are short and unvarnished. She's only wearing minimal make-up, mascara and a dark, peachy-pink lipstick. She looks directly at where he's sitting, but she can't see him, only the slightly-opened door. If he's quiet--

"It's very naughty to spy on people from inside a wardrobe," she says. Her voice is soft, teasing.

His breathing speeds up and he knows she must be able to hear his thundering heartbeat, just as loud to her ears as it is to his.

"If you come out now and apologise, I won't tell anyone what you've been doing in there."

His throat clicks as he swallows, his hand tightening over his cock before releasing it. He pushes the door open the tiniest bit, light painting a thin stripe over his body.

"Hello," she says, smiling warmly.

"H-hello," he croaks, his voice deep.

"What's your name?"

"Sherlock," he mumbles.

"Well, Sherlock, I think it's only fair that you come out and let me look at you, since you've been looking at me, don't you?"

Reluctantly, he pushes the door open and unfolds his long legs, planting his bare feet on the cold floorboards. He doesn't want to stand up, she'll see that he's being dirty and she'll--

"I can keep a secret if you can," she says. 

He keeps his eyes downcast, focusing on the front of her dress; her nipples stand out against the clinging fabric, barely discernible against the mesh pattern of the lace. 

He feels a blush burn over his cheeks. 

She gets to her feet gracefully and takes a few steps forward, standing over him so he has to crane his neck to see her face. She holds out her hands, palms down, a clear invitation.

He hesitates, then takes her hands and lets himself be pulled to his full height, towering over her. She's much smaller now, delicate and fragile, and he fights the urge to crush her to his body.

"You liked what you saw," she says, edging closer, the slight curve of her belly barely brushing his cock. She hasn't let go of his hands.

He nods, his gaze locked on her mouth.

"Would you like to see more?"

His eyes snap to hers; her pupils are blown black with desire and surrounded by a thin ring of honey-brown.

"Yes." It's barely a whisper.

His fingers twitch in her grasp as she pulls away. "You'll have to help me," she says, turning to present her back to him.

His mouth floods with saliva as he takes in the porcelain skin stretched over the graceful curve of her shoulder blades. His fingers feel clumsy and over-large as he fiddles with the delicate zip, drawing it down slowly to expose the knobs of her spine. He steps back and waits for her to peel the dress off.

"Have you changed your mind?" she asks, twisting to look at him.

He shakes his head.

"Then undress me properly."

He runs his fingers over the smooth slopes of her shoulders, sliding the wide fabric straps of the dress down over her arms. Want and nerves coil low in his belly, making him gasp from the intensity of it. She shivers and sighs from the touch, _his_ touch, and he wants to follow the path his hands had taken with his mouth, but she hadn't said he could.

He palms himself, hoping she doesn't notice. He wants to push her dress up, gaping open at the back, rub his cock against the smooth skin of her thigh before putting her hands on the footboard and grinding himself against the black lace-trimmed silk knickers barely covering the swell of her arse--

"Not yet," she says with a sharp edge of command (there's a bit of The Woman to her tone, but that's fine, it's working for him).

She pulls her arms from the wide straps of the dress and lets it fall to puddle around her feet, then steps out and kicks it away. There are faint pink rings around her thighs where the stockings had rested. He can see the bottom of her arse cheeks just under the lace of her knickers; he wants to bite the skin there until she cries out--

 _Not yet_ , he reminds himself, his eyes travelling higher, to where the knickers ride low on her hips, the plane of her lower back, the nip of her waist, the flare of her ribs, the wings of her shoulder blades--

She turns and he's confronted with her collarbones. His gaze flicks to her face; a flush is rising in her cheeks and her lips are barely parted. He takes in her slim, squared shoulders, then lingers on her small breasts. Her nipples are equally small, erect and dusky red with arousal. Lower, over her ribs and the slight convex of her abdomen, the rise of her hipbones, the black line of her knickers.

She steps closer, pulling on the hem of his t-shirt until he strips it over his head. She reaches out to touch him, feeling the hard planes and sparse hair of his very male, very adult chest. He knows his body has grown into something aesthetically pleasing, the muscles shaped from years of running through London streets, climbing into places he wasn't supposed to be, fighting. 

It shouldn't matter, it's only transport, his mind is what matters, but he takes pride in the figure he cuts.

Her hands run down his sides, to his hips, then over the bulge in his pyjama bottoms, her thin fingers lightly tracing the outline of his prick. She dips her fingers under the waistband of his pants, exposing the very tip of his cock to the cool air of the room. 

She leans into him, and it only takes one brush of the silky skin of her belly over the blood-hot, slippery head of his cock to make him tense, pulsing thick ropes of semen between them. He can feel it begin to run down his stomach, shivering with over-sensitivity when she moves deliberately against him. 

"Oh my," she breathes. "You've made a bit of a mess."

He looks away, flooded with shame.

"Clean it up," she says (and there's more of The Woman there; from her thin lips it's shocking, a delicious contrast with her usual demeanour).

He reaches for his discarded t-shirt (landed to drape over the footboard); she stops him with a hand to his jaw. She turns his face toward hers, tilting his chin down with her thumb, then runs it over his swollen bottom lip.

"Without using your hands."

 _Oh_. His cheeks blaze as he falls to his knees, his hands at his sides. He's eye level with her belly, pale and shiny-wet with his come. She watches him lean forward, gasping when his tongue slides through the mess. He doesn't mind the taste (in the real world he hates the scent and the taste, something like bleach and ammonia, the texture like improperly set jelly), eagerly lapping at her skin as she moans low in her throat. 

He hasn't gone soft (the beauty of fantasy; refractory periods are non-existent and multiple orgasms are easily achievable and less draining); he trails his hand through the slickness on his own stomach before moving lower, ghosting his fingertips over the tip of his cock. 

He risks a glance upward; her head is thrown back, baring her long, slender neck; he wants to sink his teeth into it. Instead, he dares scrape them just below her navel. Her hand fists in his hair, tugging it just this side of painful.

Feeling bold, he mouths lower, using his tongue to feel the texture of the lace waistband of her knickers, then dips underneath. His chin is sticky with his own semen and saliva, it catches on the silk.

"Touch me," she says, and it's neither a command nor a plea; the tone of the fantasy is shifting. 

His palms skim up her calves, behind her knees, the backs of her thighs, over the round of her arse. His hands come around to her hips; he hooks his fingers under the top of her knickers, sliding them down while biting and sucking marks into the sensitive skin over the hollow of her hip bone.

He pulls back to look at the soft curls of her pubic hair, completely natural (he remembers the first pictures he'd seen of naked human bodies, books from the top shelf in Father's study from the 70's, full of hairy, imperfect people; it seems almost lewd, _wild_ , in comparison to today's plastic [sterile] imagery); he buries his face against her mound to feel the texture against his lips.

He urges her legs apart, then rests his palms on the backs of her thighs, inhaling deeply before slipping his tongue out to taste her (a guess, but an informed one; he has a very sensitive nose and the sense of taste is based primarily on scent). She's wet and hot and slippery under his mouth; he dips inside to explore (another guess, but he's seen enough anatomical diagrams and pornography to know the topography), unerringly finding her clitoris and swirling his tongue around it while she pants and mewls above him.

He runs his fingers along the seam of her cu- (no, too crass, even for this) -sex, parting her labia and caressing the soft, wet folds, then teases her entrance before sliding two fingers (one seems too clinical, three is awkward) inside her. He kneads a handful of her bare arse cheek roughly as she grinds herself against his mouth, his chin and cheeks coated with her arousal.

She cries his name when she comes; he doesn't stop until she begs him to. He rises gracefully to his feet and kisses her, pushing the the taste of their combined release into her mouth. He shivers with intimacy of the act.

"Will you fuck me?" she asks breathlessly.

"Not yet," he tells her, and she whimpers against his lips.

The room is still bright, but the quality of the light changes from that of mid-morning sun through sheer curtains to something of higher contrast (in the way only dreamscapes are lit, almost like a black and white film) as he uses his body to propel her to the side of the bed. She loses balance when her knees bump the edge of the mattress and she sits down heavily, her small breasts bouncing.

Her hair has changed to its current (real-world) length and shade, it hangs loose in gentle waves about her shoulders as he's only seen it once before (Christmas, guilt, not now); she looks up at him through her lashes as he stands between her legs.

She knows everything he wants, he doesn't have to bother speaking unless he decides to (if only real life were so easy, although she intuits his needs better than most anyone); she runs her hands along the front of his thighs before picking open the knot in the drawstring of his pyjama bottoms.

He strokes her hair as she eases his pants down over his cock, sticky from his release and leaking again. She grasps him firmly, then leans forward to plant the softest of kisses to the tip. She slides her hand up, pushing his foreskin over the head to touch her lips, then back down again. 

He'd watched her eating a lolly once as she finished some paperwork while he was in the lab, licking and sucking, swirling her tongue around it while the stick was clamped between her teeth. She'd been unselfconscious, completely unaware of the eroticism of it (she was never that overt, no matter how many women's magazines she read) until she'd looked up and caught him watching (practised expression of mild disgust on his face, he couldn't let her know he'd been half-hard against the edge of the lab table); she'd gone scarlet and stammered an apology for being loud, then another for not sharing (so very like her).

He accesses those memories now, the sounds and the sight of her lips wrapped around the red (sickly-sweet scent of artificial cherries) lolly, the way her eyes had been half-closed as she focused on the papers below her and then how they'd gone wide with embarrassment.

One hand is buried in her hair while the other slides along her jaw; he runs his thumb over her bottom lip where it's stretched around his cock. She pushes his pyjamas and pants the rest of the way down; he widens his stance. She licks down the length of him, then tongues the line between his balls before sucking one into her mouth.

Her fingers skate up the inside of his thigh, then to caress his perineum; one slips back farther to brush over the sensitive pucker of his arsehole. She presses until he gives way, the tip of her finger penetrating him. It's absolutely vulgar, but she doesn't mind; she wants to make him feel good.

Her mouth returns to his cock, taking him as far as she can (the thought of her choking or gagging is repellent); he can feel the ridges of the roof of her mouth, her soft cheek behind smooth teeth, the undulation of her tongue. Her eyes drift closed; he wills her to open them and look at him.

She really is stunning in the right lighting. 

He feels his second orgasm build, his thighs beginning to shake, and then he's coming in her mouth and clenching around her finger. She knows exactly when to stop; he watches her throat as she swallows. He reaches out and catches a drop of semen that had escaped her lips, wiping it from the corner of her mouth with the pad of his thumb; she licks it clean.

She scoots back on the bed and sprawls against the pillows, her body a pale streak against the deep red duvet. He crawls over her, covering her; her willowy arms wind around his shoulders and her hands anchor in his hair as he kisses her (he likes kissing, he'd tried it once with a second cousin at a funeral in France when he was sixteen [they'd both stolen off separately to sneak cigarettes, neither spoke very much of the other's language, it was something to fill the time; they'd been caught before he could get his hand up her skirt {what if they hadn't? something to think about another time}], before he'd decided sex and love weren't for him). 

He balances on one hand while the other roams over every part of her in his reach, from her knee up to her face. She arches into his touch.

"Want you - oh! - want you to fuck me, please, Sherlock," she pants as he teethes her delicate throat.

He will, but not yet.

He works his way down her body, nipping sharply at every patch of skin his mouth lands on until he gets to her breasts. Objectively, they are small, but she's small; they're proportionate to the rest of her. 

He cups one in his palm, feeling the weight, then turns his face and nuzzles the underside before licking the faint crease where it meets her ribs. He bites the soft flesh, causing her to moan and writhe against him from the combination of pleasure and pain. He plants a kiss on the nipple, pulls at it with his lips, worries it gently between his teeth, then opens his mouth wider and sucks as much of her breast as he can inside his mouth (must be some infantile instinct, the desire to consume). 

He does the same to the other one before pushing them together and simply looking; he buries his face between them. He wonders what it would feel like to have his cock there instead, straddling her ribs and watching the shiny, red head disappear between them, ejaculating on her chest, neck, chin-- 

No, he'll do that another time, when he hasn't already had her small pink mouth on him (he likes the idea of finishing inside when he's close in the real world, he'll stick with that).

He moves up her body again, catching her mouth in a hard kiss as he positions himself, her legs automatically wrapping around his waist and crossing at the ankles. He runs the tip of his cock between her labia, teasing; she's bucking against him, wild with need.

She begs, "Please, Sherlock, please," nips at his jaw, tugs his hair again.

He plunges into her and she cries out; he starts a hard rhythm. He wants to split her in half, fuck her to pieces. He spreads his knees and pulls her down the bed so the tops his thighs are against the back of hers; he slides his hands under her and wraps his fingers over her shoulders to hold her in place. Her blunt nails leave scratches and welts on his back.

Sweat drips down his face and onto her, he's covering her with his scent. He wants to mark her, to claim her, so no one else will ever want to have what's his; he bites her neck until he's sure the imprint of his teeth will be there for days.

He could flip her over and take her on hands and knees, sink his teeth into her shoulder to mark there as well, run his hands over the pale expanse of her back to rest on the flare of her hips, palming the roundness of her arse, pulling her back onto his cock as he slams into her, _watching_ himself slam into her--

Or he could roll her over on top of him, let her ride him, watch himself fuck her that way, her breasts bouncing and her back arched in pleasure, one hand planted behind her to steady herself, gripping his knee, the other in her hair--

No, this is fine, this is good, her wrapped around him like this, breathing each other's air, as close as two human beings can be, every inch of skin possible pressed tight together.

She moans into his ear how good he is, how good it feels, how much she loves him and she'll never leave him, punctuating it with kisses and licks and sharp nips of her little teeth until she comes, clamping tight around him. He fucks her even harder, his balls heavy, slapping against her arse. He feels the tension coiling in his belly, pulling against his spine and then--

"Oh fuck, yes, Molly--"

He's coming inside her, thick and wet and with enough force that she can feel it through her whole (trembling) body; he's coming in the real world, painting stripes over the sheets below him, milking the last drops from his cock to cling and drip over the tops of his fingers.

Spent, he collapses on top of her (on top of the cooling mess on the sheets), panting and pressing sweet kisses to her mouth. He drifts contentedly, his emotions brought close to the surface by the soup of neurotransmitters and hormones flooding his brain. 

She rubs her cheek against his and tells him again that she loves him, he returns the sentiment with light caresses (he can let himself experience romantic love like this, when it's completely safe and without the responsibilities that go along with it), gazing into her soft brown eyes. She holds him close as his heartbeat returns to normal, nuzzling and trading tired kisses, drowsiness pulling them both under. 

It doesn't last, of course, and he's left with nothing but the vague feeling of shame in his own weakness, an undefined sense of longing, and bed linens in desperate need of washing.

He thinks he'll take her lunch tomorrow (Quavers, a Cadbury Egg as well, she likes those) as a kind of thank you, or an apology for debasing her inside his mind as he does. He'll watch her smile to herself from the corner of his eye as she peels the foil down the chocolate, wrapping her lips around it to bite into the shell, dipping her tongue into the sweet, creamy centre--

Oh. Oh, that's a brilliant idea, of course it is, he always has brilliant ideas.


End file.
